


Company

by squidmemesinc



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Other, Tactile, not sure this even merits an M rating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-26
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2019-03-24 05:52:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13804797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squidmemesinc/pseuds/squidmemesinc
Summary: “What are you after?” he asks, not in a position to meet Megatron’s eyes and aware of the imbalance in the power of his query because of it.“Keep me company,” Megatron says, his voice strong and sure. But the words are absurd.





	Company

**Author's Note:**

> I've been having a little writer's block and I wanted some soft gays. Maybe Knife Cat and Dirty Old Man are a weird choice for soft gays but this is just where I am today.
> 
> Please excuse the disconnected 'plot' and just enjoy big evil robot cuddles.

Deadlock lies on his suite’s berth with his fingers laced under his helm and one foot bobbing against his crossed leg. He’d thought about recharge for a while, and that had gradually faded to thinking about nothing at all, staring at the ceiling without noticing it, or really anything else. The motions of his pede are automatic and inobtrusive to his perception, probably a manifestation of his subconscious that would normally be eager to prove to himself and everyone else that he’s still alive.

That’s not really the point.

A knock at the door stills his minor motions immediately, and for a moment he stays like that and lets everything flood back to him. Then before everything can really sink in, he interrupts the flow by heaving himself off the berth in a fast, heavy movement and crossing the several paces towards the door to open it. 

“You could have just let yourself in,” he says, regretting the mistake of letting his optics pass over the wound on Megatron’s side. But Megatron’s seen that he’s seen, so now he can’t feign ignorance in the interest of selfishness. Far be it from him to be compassionate or concerned; Megatron’s been trying to teach him manners. He grinds his denta for a second and thinks he sees an infuriating, nearly imperceptible rise in the corner of Megatron’s mouth. “Shouldn’t you go to the medic?” He nearly pouts as he says it and wants to roll his eyes at himself.

Megatron pushes past him into the room, showing no signs of being affected by his wound. “I appreciate your...concern,” he says, knowing full well Deadlock is unimpressed by his injury, “but I am where I need to be.”

“As long as you don’t bleed on my bed,” Deadlock sniffs as Megatron crosses over to it and sets himself down. Deadlock remains standing a small distance away with his arms crossed while he leans against the desk, continuing to be stubborn to serve no purpose but his own pride. 

Megatron reclines against the wall and doesn’t reply, because he knows Deadlock is aware that all the energon splattered across his frame is dry. The wound isn’t serious, but protocol is protocol, and there’s an unspoken, overwhelming honor that Megatron’s first stop back from this mission is what it is. 

Deadlock isn’t sure what to do with that. It might be embarrassing, to perceive himself as Megatron’s weakness. A softness in the commander of the Decepticons that ought not to be displayed, and yet here is being flaunted to him.

“You don’t seem pleased to see me,” Megatron observes, peeking one optic open to eye Deadlock from across the room. He sounds more amused than disappointed, for now. Deadlock doesn’t answer. “You’re still irritated I didn’t choose you to accompany me.” Again, Deadlock has nothing to say to this. After all, it’s a statement, not a question. If his commander were to ask him something, of course he’d respond. But he hasn’t, so Deadlock doesn’t. 

Megatron gives a soft sigh. “Soundwave is occupying the medics’ attention.” And there’s a lot more in that statement than what he’s said aloud. Something had gone wrong; Soundwave is no novice. Megatron’s injuries are a lower priority. He’s addressing Deadlock’s concerns of his weakness by countering that they were, instead, the opposite, with a sigh indicating his questioning is unwelcome and unnecessary and shall cease immediately. The accompanying look he gives him holds the command to Stop Sulking. 

Deadlock regards him for another silent moment before bumping his hip off the table and striding over to the berth. He stands in front of it for a moment, eyeing the gash marring Megatron’s side now even more casually, and deciding the pain, if there is any, must not even register. There’s a fresh glow beneath the caked on energon residue that indicates autorepair doing its best, which isn’t good enough, but isn’t nothing either. Deadlock feels no pity, nor any need to be careful as he climbs onto the berth and settles into the warmth along Megatron’s undamaged side.

Megatron’s hand that isn’t curled around his back, resting on his hip, tilts his head up from where it was tucked into his shoulder. There’s an expectation here, with Megatron’s eyes cast towards his lips, his fingers holding his chin at the right angle for him to lean in to kiss him. But the expectation is that the initiative is Deadlock’s to take for his doubt, to prove his subordinance and dedication. 

It’s an easy request to acquiesce to, easier than many others Deadlock has eventually given in to. His own hand rises to the back of Megatron’s neck, using it as sturdy leverage to lift himself further off his chest and submit to Megatron’s kiss. Or rather, engage, hungry enough from just that one gaze to submit if the situation calls for it. But Megatron’s lips move slowly against his today, quelling Deadlock’s attempts to get his fangs into Megatron’s metal with steady, overpowering pressure that locks them closed, nearing chaste, if anything they’ve ever done could be labeled as such. His pace is slowed almost immediately, and like a wild animal, he’s tamed and eased into a lax and languid sprawl against his commander’s might. 

Deadlock lies cradled in the crook of his arm and huffs out shallow vents. The frustration alone at being slowed has activated his fans, the confusion at being denied their usual passion and vigor in favor or something that seems more tender. But he doesn’t dare doubt again. “What are you after?” he asks, not in a position to meet Megatron’s eyes and aware of the imbalance in the power of his query because of it.

“Keep me company,” Megatron says, his voice strong and sure. But the words are absurd.

“I’m not your pet—”

“Nor have I ever treated you as such. Are you incapable of lying still and being quiet? I’ve had a long journey and I’m not in the mood for your antics.” This message is clear, commanding, and indicative of the beginnings of irritation and short-temperedness.

Deadlock resists the urge to snort, knowing it’ll only lift Megatron to ire, and instead cuddles in deeper against his side. “Yes, My Lord,” he says with the tiniest edge of mockery he knows Megatron will make a concession for. 

Again, he lies on his berth, this time contorted around a larger mech’s frame, with his warmth seeping into his plating. He’s aware of the soft thrum of Megatron’s spark reverberating through his own as their fields mingle. Megatron is quiet and contemplative; Deadlock senses he’s offlined his optics, though he remains conscious for the small movements of his wrist circling as his fingers trace around Deadlock’s hip joint. So close to his array, this attention inspires heat in him, but he pushes down his urges to crawl over Megatron and have his way, unsure if he might eventually sway him. He focuses on a spot across the room, and before long his own hand is mimicking the slow, trailing circles he feels on his hip joint across Megatron’s arm, and he does not recharge.

It’s such a slow rise that he nearly doesn’t notice it, save for Megatron is here and that’s distracting him and any subtle changes in their silent environment will inevitably catch his attention. A quiet contentedness, blooming from Megatron’s field. For a moment, Deadlock changes no variables, but smiles against Megatron’s armor for his own benefit. Abruptly, he rounds out the circling of his fingers to dip straight down into the elbow joint, then run back up just shy of his shoulder. 

There’s another obvious twinge in Megatron’s field, but he makes no other sound or movement or protest, so Deadlock grows more adventurous. His fingers paint spiraling patterns across Megatron’s plating, over his arm, across his chest, skirting experimentally around the edges of the gash on his side. There’s a temptation to explore the mechanisms within, to coax a reaction from Megatron, though he thinks even that wouldn’t have much of an effect. At last, Megatron does heave a heavy sigh of contentedness that matches the expression of his field. And he continues to make no move to stop him or encourage him. 

Deadlock’s tongue peeks from between his lips, half a pensive motion, half a measure to wet them. “My Lord—”

“Quiet,” Megatron insists, his arm lifting out of Deadlock’s reach to curl around his helm, muffling whatever speech he might offer against his own metal. His fingers twist into reciprocation of his earlier movements, ducking under the significant kibble that largely obstructs Deadlock’s neck nimbly to stroke at the cables along his spine. This immediately sends a shiver through Deadlock’s entire frame, though it’s a shiver that blooms out into pleasure, and he can’t help making a soft noise as he settles himself to align more fully with Megatron’s frame. 

His own distracted fingers sneak up to Megatron’s shoulder to do little more than curl and uncurl them across the surface there, but his right hand, now curling across Megatron’s undamaged side, traces the lines in his plating, the biolights that adorn his frame, teasing the little crevices with dainty touches unbefitting of either of them. And nearly as effective is flattening his palm over all these lightly adorned areas for a contrast of warmth and sturdiness, sending faster blooming shocks throughout him. 

The feedback returns to Deadlock through their entwined fields. Where his own flutters with frayed energy that ripples the room, indicative of a relaxed and unattempted sense of restriction, Megatron’s undulates with low thrums of powerful energy, released over longer periods of time with a conscious effort put in to the manipulation. 

Megatron’s other hand comes back to him, now accessing the parts of his spine that the other can’t reach. It runs high between his shoulders, then lower, varying the pressure along the line of his t-cog, and dipping low to the disappearance of it beneath his aft plating. Deadlock shivers again and scrapes his fingers across Megatron’s shoulder, wriggling slightly so he can work one of his legs between Megatron’s thighs, the other looped over one of them. 

Megatron allows it. This alignment is not meant for anything more than a greater entanglement. More dynamic points mixing with the static pressure of abdominal plating. Another way to shift—slightly, lacking the frantic energy of their usual engagements. This is building to a more lethargic kind of satisfaction. One which doesn’t necessarily end in an explosion of fireworks, but builds on and within itself to a sustained level of a more subtle pleasure.

Deadlock presses himself against the larger mech at as many points as he can. Eventually he must release, bringing his fingers with him in lazy swirls of shifting energy. He’s not being still, per se; contact with Megatron always entices him to a certain amount of movement, no matter the scenario. It’s impossible to be still, to not try to work himself in closer to something that cannot quite be reached. Heat grips his insides even as he denies himself the possibility of that tonight—as Megatron has denied it.

And yet he doesn’t find himself too disappointed. This all-over heat provided by the other mech is something he so rarely gets to experience, as often as he is distracted by one or two or a few sources of frenetic charge. His motions against the commander’s plating grow less fluid. His fingers stutter their lines out, skittering across his plating as another soft noise rises from his vocalizer. Deadlock grips Megatron’s shoulder and holds himself still against him, and Megatron’s fingers slow in accordance. The hand at his neck stills, eventually drops down to his shoulder and stays there. The other rests on his side, stroking diagonally and flat-palmed against the curve of his back. And this is a gentle let down from the tickling, torturing little pleasures they’d bestowed on each other. 

Deadlock’s optics remain open, fixed on that point on the wall to hold his determination, until they aren’t. Until there’s only heat and pressure all around, and stillness and silence.


End file.
